


Last Breath

by chewysugar



Series: Inherent Vice [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some would say it's unhealthy. To Sam, it's a way of having control over Life and Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Breath

It’s not that he does it because he wants to die. He’s died so many times now that he’s become inured to the fear and threat of it. No, he does it because it’s the extreme of extreme. 

Honestly, after everything he’s been through, Sam is surprised that he can still do something as base as masturbate. Trauma has a way of lowering a person’s libido.

Perhaps it’s a sign that Sam has never really been traumatized, because his appetite for jerking off hasn’t diminished after all these years. 

It’s only the method that’s changed.

Of course, he doesn’t do _it_ when Dean’s around. Not his edge-pushing way of doing it, at least. He needs to be entrenched in something deep and heavy to turn to the air-strangling feeling of shooting his load while nearly choking himself to unconsciousness.

He still can jerk his dick off like a normal person…as normal as it can be when you sleep less than five feet away from your older brother. Under the covers, hand in briefs. Sometimes he’ll use a sock or a rubber to catch his jizz. Sometimes he’ll just let it stain his skin and the sheets.

But when he feels the need to go to that place, the one where he’s essentially having a nice little webcam show with Life and Death, things have to be the heaviest of heavy.

Tonight, one last stone gets added to his chest. Sam doesn’t even remember what it was that got him thinking about getting his rocks off in the extreme. All he knows is that he felt the weight of it sometime after checking in and opening his laptop. To do what, he can’t even remember.

It’s lucky for him that Dean takes off for a joyride, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Dean’s probably out fucking a waitress or beating off in the Impala.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Sam’s a guy; he’s familiar with the whiff of semen. There’s been times when he gets a hit of it after Dean comes back from one of the midnight rides. It really doesn’t bother him that much; long as Dean keeps it off shotgun side, Sam’s all good.

For this, there’s no spank bank material. Sam doesn’t need any. This isn’t about picturing anything—not that he has much in the catalogue of his memory to choose from in terms of jerk-off fantasies. He can’t think about Jess or Madison because they died; can’t think about all the times that Ruby sucked his dick because Ruby turned out to be a bitch traitor from Hell.

Sam think that it’s because he’s had such a tragic streak with women that he found this outlet. Whenever he beats the meat regularly, it’s just because he likes the feeling.

This, though? It’s something infinitely more.

He waits a full five minutes after Dean leaves before he strips his shirt off and unloops his belt from his jeans. Clothes get thrown in the corner, leaving Sam in his briefs. He’s already got a tent in the front of his underwear. He squeezes it through the fabric, feeling the weight of it, the steeliness of it. Sam’s equipped—all Winchester men are, at least according to Dean.

The motel carpet is scratchy and warm on the back of Sam’s legs. He sits down, his black leather belt held in both hands. He rubs the hard, smooth leather, a jolt going up his spine as he thinks about what he’s going to do; how it’s going to feel. 

Breath slows along with his heartbeat. He wraps the belt around his throat with the same finesse he would use to undress a woman His Adam’s apple bobs; it’s an instinctive reaction. Sam’s brain and body know that this is a dangerous thing, but that’s what makes him want it.

He only draws the belt in close enough to feel a slight pressure on his skin. He likes to take his time doing this, likes to match the constricting feeling around his throat with the nearness of his orgasm.

Sam’s full mast even before he starts touching his cock. Through half-closed lids he stares at the red, perfect head; a glistening pearl of moisture slowly forms. Muscle memory makes Sam pull a little tighter on the belt, but only just so. There’s a method to this, on that he’s perfected.

It almost feels like conducting a symphony, one of flesh and sticky wetness and deep breathing. The feelings blend, but are their own separate movement of the carnal song; the slickness of his cock; the pinch of his skin as he tightens the belt more and more. Soon air becomes trapped in his throat. His muscles tense, but he fights off the instinctual panic.

Breathe in: focus on the breath. Breath out: let the urge to pull the belt off drift away. Surrender utterly to what he feels in his balls and in his cock. Force himself to breathe as the belt gets tighter and tighter around his neck.

His mind begins to get fuzzy. It’s always done this, and it’s the part he craves almost as much as his orgasm. Sam is master of the millions of years of flight-fight or freeze response ingrained into the human brain. It takes hold of his body as he willingly constricts the airflow to his lungs. This is something he can control, this brush with possible death—and this blatant middle finger to the horror story of a life he’s had to lead.

Sam is straddling them both. His movements become faster; the shaft of his cock is coated in slick, natural lubricant. He can barely breathe, his lungs starting to sear from the effort it’s taking to draw breath. He’s standing on the edge; his nuts twitch, and his brain, his poor brain—the thing designed to keep him alive—doesn’t know what the fuck to do as it gets pushed to warm ecstasy and blind panic as Sam tugs the belt that much tighter.

Unconsciousness swoops down like a vulture as the oxygen is denied his brain for a microsecond.

But when Sam starts to come—spurt after spurt of hot ejaculate spilling from the crown of his dick through his fingers—he side steps blacking out. Orgasm is too powerful a force, and Sam goes from seeing stars in a vista of multicolored nothing to staring through heavy, watering eyes at one last rope of jizz spurting onto the floor between his legs and over his thighs.

He lets go of the belt, which falls with a heavy thud beside him. His skin is slicked in a layer of sweat; his face is burning from the split-second loss of oxygen to his head.

“Fuck.” The word escapes on the wings of a gentle sigh. Sam tugs on his cock one last time. The back of his head falls against the smooth closet door behind him. He’s breathing hard and heavy now, every deep inhale and slow, shuddering exhale precious.

It does cross his mind, the way it’s often done after he’s come down from doing this, that his taste for such play might be a little unhealthy. But so, Sam reasons, is digging up the bones of the deceased, doing battle with the forces of Heaven and Hell, and having the Devil himself live in your mind for months at a time.

This time, this breathless experience, is his and his alone.

He stares down at the translucent splotches of white on the ugly carpet. He’ll clean up after a shower. As funny as it would be to see or hear Dean stepping in a puddle of Sam’s jizz, Sam knows that Dean’s had a fuck of a time lately. It wouldn’t be fair.

He pulls his briefs up, and as he heads for the shower, he’s given pause by a noise from outside the motel.

It’s the lullaby that Sam was sung to sleep with when he was a baby; the familiar rumble of the Impala.

Sam frowns. He allotted thirty minutes for jacking off. He’s pretty sure that Dean left the motel only a few minutes before he went to town on himself. But there’s no mistaking that telltale roar of classic muscle car motor.

He shrugs it off.

Whatever Dean gets up to whenever he leaves to let off steam, it certainly can’t be as fucked up as what Sam does.


End file.
